Killing Time OST – 1a – Strike

I straightened at the edge of light, tugging my mid-thigh high boots upward. I loved these boots. I stuck removable stilettos under them when I was on another type of prowl. Tonight, my boots of butt-kicking were heel-less and the sole flexed along my feet’s movements. Perfect for what I had to do.
In the darkness, I stood almost invisible, clad in black extendable Kevlar. No reason not to be as safe as houses and sexy as hell.  With my hair rolled in a tight bun, I looked like a dominatrix – which was totally my point.
I stretched my arms and legs slowly, and then bent over backward until my hands touched the ground. They called it ‘The Wheel Pose’ in yoga. I called it ‘Ready to Roll’. I unfolded fluidly working my abs to pull me straight.
Warm up: check.
Scooting closer to the lit street, I peered at my surroundings to find the best point of entry. I planned everything but the perfect spot to get off the ground. I could have done my reconnaissance earlier but I procrastinated – world class assassins had their flaws too. The pursuit of perfection was somebody else’s business, somebody who would soon feel a fresh breeze on his gray matter.
These streets emptied hours ago. Rich neighborhoods weren’t prone to late night drunks since they got shot on the spot. This district was all rich people, stony ornamented façades and high-tech surveillance topped with a ‘Touch a wall, lose a hand’ policy.
At least, carved stone facilitated climbing.
I heard the chatter of the crowd two blocks away. Access to the annual “Tech Anniversary” parade was restricted. No one but house owners were allowed to wander in the nearby streets which ensured my peace and quiet. I broke the law just standing here but the despicable parade advantaged me.
I spotted a series of imperfections on a wall well away from the street lights, next to a gutter. Perfect. The only thing I was missing was the appropriate soundtrack. I placed my middle finger on the bone behind my ear and taped: two long, pause, two short and one long, pause, three short. M-U-S in Morse code. The micro-chip in my brain powered up.
“Welcome to Cyber Radio.” The automated announcer’s voice stimulated my auditory neurons directly. Headphones were so passé. “What can we play for you today?”
I grinned. I had picked my song as soon as I decided to go through with this. It was part of my process. Pick the song. Work the plan. Confirm that the song’s timing fits the plan.
If not, get the remix.
I thought tonight’s song’s title and the mechanical voice confirmed.
“Now playing God is God by Juno Reactor.”
I’m a sucker for turn of the Millennium-ish music, among other things. Old-fashioned to the core, I hated today’s tunes: programs composing utopian music ruled the market and the remaining artists created cacophonies because they couldn’t rival with the perfect melodies. Perfection killed me – it killed the whole world, actually. So I killed “perfection” right back and I was damn good at it.
Plenty money to be made cleaning out the scum.
The music possessed me as soon as the first bar started. My hips moved in slow figures of eight, following the notes that introduced the song. When the beat started, I timed my strut with it. Six minutes, fifty seconds and I would be in. Either that or I was seriously losing my touch. I swung my hips to the beat, carefully staying away from the halo of the street lights. When I got closer to my objective, I walked sideways along the walls so the surveillance spotlights – your standard automated follow spots sweeping back and forth – would miss me.
“You shall see darkness. God is God.” You bet, Juno.
I reached my chosen spot of on wall and began to climb. The female vocalization pulled me up as surely as my muscles’ efforts. I wedged my feet in the cracks and wrapped my fingers around the protuberances. I pressed myself against the wall so that the follow spot brushing the street at regular intervals wouldn’t allow the guard to make much difference between me and the oversized gutter. I managed to stay true to the rhythm of the song. Music always was my favorite motivational tool.
My hands rested on the roof. I waited a beat for the lights to flow past. Then, I almost bent in two, my butt in the air, to stick my feet closer to the top of the ledge. This part was tricky. I pulled myself in a handstand so that neither the follow spot illuminating the street nor the one sifting the roof revealed my presence.
There’s something thrilling about hanging upside down, five stories up. I faced the void in front of me and smiled. I could fall. I was human after all. Nanotechnology hadn’t preyed on me, ‘enhancing’ me into a thing barely human that supposedly never failed.
I grinned. Label me monkey wrench.
Three beats passed and the light was gone for a few seconds. I promptly lowered my feet and pushed with my arms to do half a back flip that landed me on the roof. I rushed to the side of the greenhouse planted in the middle of the space.
Crazy rich men.
The follow spots did another sweep. I ran to reach the opposite ledge and stood there for yet another swipe.
The choreography flowed precisely as planned, timed to the beat playing in my head. While the light was away, I unfolded my collapsible bow and set its string. I lowered it next to my side waiting for the light to wash the space a few inches before and behind me. Once it was gone, I’d have eight beats to aim and shoot.
The light moved away. I brought my bow up, nocked the grappling arrow and adjusted my aim. I released the string and the arrow flew right to the chimney of the building next door, one floor below, towing a cord. It pierced the structure then deployed in a large grappling hook that could support my weight. I lowered my bow to allow the lights to pass.
The next eight beats allowed me to stick my bow to the ledge with a carefully dosed acid that merged the material of my bow and the roof together. It would hold. The light washed my surroundings. I jumped off and grabbed the cord in my Kevlar covered hands to slide across the busy street.

1b – Strike >>